Death

You claim you are a paradox

in your absent presence,

your uncertain certainty,

your passive activity,

your cruel manipulation.

Oh how pubertal of you!

You claim

you can,

you will,

you must.

Oh how narcissistic of you,

and how compulsive, too!

You claim to know them all,

the children,

the fathers,

the sick, the aged and disturbed.

Oh choose already, and commit!

But you can’t, you won’t, and so I presume

you are lonely, too.

I confess and admit,

not that I am, too,

but that I understand.

So tonight, when I put on my red gown

and the red lipstick

and go down to the gardens

where the roses blossom

and where my lover waits for me,

I’ll blow you a kiss into the warm summer breeze.

“Au revoir, chéri.”